


i feel you're closer every time i call you

by hailhydraheyskye



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resurrection, Themyscira, diana use her godess power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 14:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailhydraheyskye/pseuds/hailhydraheyskye
Summary: Wonder Woman hated liars. She fought for the truth.Yet, there she was, telling the biggest one, lying to herself. It’s better that he was dead.Not able to see the damages of the WWII and the radioactive blast of the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, not able to be a hero and to die as a hero a second or a third time.Selfishly, she thought that it was better. She had not had to bury him after a lifetime spent together, counting grey strikes in his hair while they brushed their tooth every morning. // wondertrev fix-it for secret santa 2k17





	i feel you're closer every time i call you

Wonder Woman was a name code, an alter-ego but most of the time, it was a ghost.

(A ghost from the World War One, from the World War II, from the Viet War and from the Cold War. Wonder Woman was the blurred shadow of the human wars, but more than that, it was the ghost of an immortal oasis. Themyscira. After all these decades of crawling in the black streets of the mortal world, the name on her tongue was foreign. Crashing like waves, burning like sunburns, aching like only home can be but –)

And Diana Prince was a woman with voices screaming inside her head, bruises and scratches on her heart rather than on her almost bulletproof skin, pencil skirt and golden jewelry (she loved being this kind of woman who was powerful in every outfit because it was her mind that was praised by the gods when her body was only begged for by the mortal foolish men.)

She was an old woman with too many inches of hard skin, indestructible bones, and tired glim in the eyes.

But being a ghost was not what made her feel like the world was slowing down in the course of time, giving her the odd impression that she was aging when she was clearly not.

It was Steve’s ghost who made every decade without him feel like another coat on her shoulders. A painful and true and dead ghost.

It was the ghost of his lips, his smile, his golden hair, his era.

His world. (After him, Etta was gone followed by Charlie then Sameer. One by one, buried.)

Humans stayed humans, and when Diana had saved them, she had sworn to protect them, to love them. But sometimes, it was harder.

When she had to watch their bodies going down into the ground, without songs for helping them to find the next world or without any escape for their soul but a roof of soil. Rooting, their chest filled with dust. Forgotten.

She outlived them all.

“Diana? There is someone on the phone for you.”

Working in Paris is easier for her. It was a neutral ground. It was not the painful memories of Belgium or the shimmering-veil feeling of England. They had not left marks where she walked, slaloming between the glass pyramids of the Louvre, or in the air she breathed.

(A time had come where she preferred to breathe pollution of cars and factories than feelings, and somehow, they kept considering her as wise…)

She rose up from the chair where she was sitting since this morning as her assistant, a young so young lady with red hair and pinkish cheeks, made her way to her.

Her name was Helene and she was a really pretty girl. Sometimes, Diana thinks about getting a coffee with her one day, just talking and laughing, but then she can clearly see this juvenal face overwhelmed by wrinkles and by the inevitable burden that is age.

She had to love them, humans. It was her duty. When her smile trembled, she convinced herself that it was because of emotion (love made people do incredible and crazy things, she knew that as much as mortals.) but, deep in her chest, she knew.

Oh, how strong she was, demigoddess, fearing of attaching herself to these foolish weak and lovely creatures.

She watched her assistant leave the office, the phone in her hand, cold and soulless.

She wondered if she would go to Helene’s funeral. Would she weep tears from her face? Put a bouquet of flowers on her tombstone, in memory of her dedicated assistant?

Compensating by hunting down criminals and monsters of flesh and bones at night. The blast of her aura burning the pure idea of grief, every strike of lasso burying deeper her own feelings.

For the greater good, for the human’s race.

And sometimes she wondered about him: how his voice could have sound on the phone? Would he have loved sports and online newspapers?

She picked up, lost in her thoughts, and for a second, she expected to hear his breathing.

“Diana Prince?”

“It’s me.”

“We found _it_. We found _him_.”

And, deep in her chest, she knew that she had no expectations. She could not have any.

Him. It must have been Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne or Hades or a dangerous and veracious secret ready to destroy her world.

Steve Trevor was dead. And she did not know exactly who is on the other side of the line, a scientist, a powerful man without any doubt but not a god.

Only a god can bring back a mortal (even a heroic one) from the realm of death.

She laughed hard and harder. She did not know that she had this kind of laugh in her: bitter.

She wanted to take it back. But she could not.

“Have you listened to a single word that I have said, Diana Prince?”

No, she did not. Wonder Woman hated liars. She fought for the truth.

“Yes. I did.”

Yet, there she was, telling the biggest one, lying to herself. _It’s better that he was dead._

Not able to see the damages of the WWII and the radioactive blast of the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, not able to be a hero and to die as a hero a second or a third time.

Selfishly, she thought that it was better. She had not had to bury him after a lifetime spent together, counting grey strikes in his hair while they brushed their tooth every morning.

“The plane was in the ocean. The explosion occurred in two phases, one in the sky, the second once he entered into the ocean.”

She remembered everything: the heatwave, her own scream sounding like the agony of a stranger, and the pain. But the most horrifically accurate image in her mind was the vibrant color of the fire, the cruelty of the flames while they were licking the metallic bones of the planes and the fresh flesh of her lover.

A fire was so different from the cool water around Themyscira and yet, if ocean failed to let drown Steve Trevor, flames took his life away.

Was it a possibility that fire had failed too to end this soldier, this pilot, this lover’s life?

“The deflagration created a submarine earthquake, destroying the plane almost immediately because of the force of pressure and of the intensity of the explosion. Marine rift is a common reaction in this kind of case, you know, Diana. Aspiring everything in a perimeter of a hundred miles. Essentially water, most of the times, but if there was a body deriving….”

“He could have been alive” she whispers.

There is a silence, only filled with fear and terror.

( _agape.)_

“He could have been alive” she repeated, her voice more stable. “However, it’s been a hundred years. Even if he had survived to the explosion. Humans – we – cannot win against time”

“We haven’t found his body, Diana. Even if Steve Trevor was in this cavity for a time, he could not have survived.”

“But…”

She was no longer rationalizing.

“Diana, I agreed, me and my unity, to look after this veteran because you have connections with Wayne and that you are quite persuasive…but no matter what Steve Trevor represents for you, you need to let him go.”

Her breath was harsh and for a second, she thought about protesting, denying.

(The story began like this: Bruce Wayne owed her a favor and a photography. The plane where Steve was in when he died had never been found and they had to watch and cry over an empty casket, decorated with ribbons of liberty’s color. She wanted him back. She wanted him to be where he belonged, with his ornaments. In a cemetery where modern heroes belonged to, just like gods belonged to the pantheon.)

But the scientist – she did not remember his name. It was more than five years since Wayne had contacted him and they had never spoken before – was right. Steve Trevor was dead.

Ocean had swallowed him.

“I let go.” She said with an empty voice, her hand contracted on the phone, so strong that she could have taken it to pieces _so easily_ (so so easily. As easily as the world had reduced to nothing the presence of Steve Trevor.)

This night, Wonder Woman was too tired to fight. This night she decided that criminals could run a bit longer, could spread their evilness a bit further like tentacles. She could always catch them again the next night or the next, the next after that and the next and –

She had eternity to catch them again.

This night, Diana Prince was too tired to fight, so she slept instead.

She dreamt of her first meeting with Steve Trevor.

She dreamt of home. Sand turning into ashes, laughs and swords smashing turning into screams, rushing sound of bullets.

Dream turning into a nightmare.

She woke up before the sun, with the lingering confidence that she would only find closure with waves licking her heels.

Confronted to the sea that had destroyed the only hero that war was not strong enough to take.

She booked a one-way ticket for the coast, she painted her nails white and put on her darkest suit.

The golden lasso is in her suitcase, her tiara hidden behind her bold locks of dark hair, she entered in the airport like if she was underwater.

The coast was savage. She fell on her knee, hands joined, lips sealed.

Staring at the sea with a thunderous look.

In her mind, the last word of the scientist in lieu of a goodbye ringing like bells: “the only thing you can do is praying, miss Prince.”

It was what she did. Praying her mother, Hippolyta, and the spirit of Antiope to let her pass.

To let her come _home._

She dove into the water, swam and swam and swam. Fever in her bones, hope in her mind.

(Finally, Themyscira was more beautiful than in her memory and the embrace of her mother was warmer than expected.

“You are so human, Diana. I can smell their odors on your skin. Pollution, lies, hypocrisy.”

But her speech was as cold as the breeze was the night she left. _With him_.)

She was a weapon. The destroyer of Gods. Her words bounced on her immortal skin.

She held her mother tighter.

“I love you, mother. Only the force of my faith, my grief and my love made me come back to you.”

Diana closed her eyes, inhaling slowly the earthy perfume of her godly mother, ignoring the deep gaze of the immortal woman on her. Hippolyta was a gold digger looking the secrets of mortal world in her long-absent daughter’s heart.

Diana went to the shore.

Diana went to the shore where Antiope died.

Diana went to the shore where she met Steve Trevor.

But she did find neither the blood of her general on the sand, probably washed over and over by the sea since a century, nor the clear and bright voice of her lover calling for an angel, thinking he had found heaven.

She buried her feet in the sand like roots of the island, and screamed.

(For a whole week, she did not move, she did not lower her voice, her rage. She was

 a god.

She claimed

 her prize, her birthright. Even if for it, she needed to be Atlas for a whole week.)

With the dawn, came a body. Uniform soaked and eaten by the salt, blue cold lips and swollen face. A corpse.

She noticed she had lost her voice when she tried to pronounce his name.

“Steve”

_SteveSteveSteveSteveSteve –_

She reached for the sky, blue and endless.

_SteveSteveSteveSteveSteve –_

He opened his eyes. Blue like the sea.

“Hey, angel.”

Without taking her eyes off his weak smile, she addressed a strange prayer to higher deities.

_“thanks gods.”_


End file.
